


Contact, Exposure, Development

by Nice_Valkyrie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Questioning, Vintage Pornography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 07:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18361343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nice_Valkyrie/pseuds/Nice_Valkyrie
Summary: Roy had never realized he could learn so much from looking at dirty pictures.





	Contact, Exposure, Development

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains brief descriptions/mentions of mild kink, including bondage, wax play, and impact play.

The nude women in the photograph had their arms around each other, and their legs crossed daintily to obscure their private sprouts of hair. This was not what had Lieutenant Carmichael grinning from ear to ear as he walked the postcard around the tent. That, Roy saw as his turn came, was because the dark-haired woman was pinching one of the blonde woman’s nipples.

“It’s sweet,” Carmichael said loudly in Roy’s ear. “Nice, right?”

“Yeah,” said Roy. The blonde woman’s face was round in exaggerated surprise. Below the photograph, Roy’s half-finished report lay neglected.

Carmichael’s breath was hot and rank with stale tobacco. “Something to think about the next time you shake hands with the milkman, eh?”

“Right.”

Carmichael didn't seem to feel he was receiving the response he deserved. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Roy. “Lots. The pose comes from a painting.” His aunt had a replica hung in one of her upstairs rooms. Roy might very well have seen these exact women before; he couldn’t quite summon up the energy to look through his memories properly. Ishval had a way of filing the edges off his thoughts until they began to deform and melt together.

Carmichael, evidently satisfied or at least bored, moved on to the next bench—but not before clapping Roy on the back rather harder than was necessary and sneering, “Well, doesn’t that make you just the pervert.”

Roy didn’t have enough energy to be angry, either.

Before he could refocus on the report he’d been trying to finish for the last ten minutes, there was a sigh beside him. “At least I’m not the only one who found it dull.”

Roy glanced at Kimblee, who was picking dirt from beneath a nail. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, I suppose.” He couldn’t help but notice Carmichael hadn’t tried to shove the postcard under _Kimblee’s_ nose.

Kimblee seemed to judge the nail clean, tucking it against his palm and turning his full attention to Roy. “And do you think that earns you the title of _pervert_?” 

Kimblee’s eyes were blue and steady, and the word didn’t sound quite the same in his low, rough voice. Roy felt a funny little stirring in his stomach. Like the bubbles in seltzer, the feeling filled and bolstered him, even as it tickled restlessly. “Maybe I’m just picky.”

“You have discerning taste,” Kimblee corrected him. One corner of his mouth turned up in a thin, slanted smile, and he leaned in, quieter now. “I’ve got much more interesting material back with my things, you know.”

Roy swallowed the saliva that had collected unnoticed in his mouth. “Contraband?”

“Oh, certainly.” Kimblee’s gaze darted over Roy’s face, and the smile grew. “But I have discerning taste, too.” 

After Roy dashed off the last of his report, hoping he hadn’t left out anything important, he tried to slow himself to match Kimblee’s easy, loping walk back to his tent. He thought of the day Jimmy Harding had nicked a dirty photograph from his father’s closet and brought it to school. At lunch, they stood in a huddle in the woods and passed the picture around. He felt a little of the same transgressive thrill now, though Kimblee didn’t seem at all ruffled.  

“I’ve been called that before, too,” he said abruptly. “ _Pervert_.”

“I haven’t heard it since I was a kid,” said Roy. He had guarded the specifics of his upbringing rather closely, but eventually the truth had gotten out. “It wasn’t the worst insult, just the most frequent.”

“Boys want so badly to fit in with one another,” Kimblee said, sighing. He held the tent flap open for Roy. “Sit.”

Roy settled on the edge of the cot, and Kimblee knelt to rummage through his gear.

“Any deviancy from norms is taken as a threat,” he continued. His hair was pulled back very tightly; the glossy black strands lay smooth across his scalp, which looked slightly sunburned. “That’s why you have to keep it from being discovered.”

Kimblee sat, tucking one leg under himself, and solemnly presented Roy with a small bound book.

Roy hadn’t expected quite _that_ much pornography. He didn’t reach out to touch it; he had the impression Kimblee would take offense. “Where did you find something like that?”

“It’s homemade. I pasted in the photos I like.” Kimblee turned a few pages delicately by their corners. “Here. Take a look at this.”

The woman was kneeling, and bound with rope that wound all the way around her body. Her legs were free, thighs spread to show dark hair between them. A scrap of black cloth gagged her.

“Do you like it?” said Kimblee.

Heat rose in Roy’s face. The rope cut into the woman’s stomach, her shoulders, her breasts, a painfully intimate embrace. Her eyes were wide with something that was not quite fear. The heat slid south, filling Roy’s groin until his cock began to throb.

“It’s nice,” he heard himself say. Carmichael’s postcard hadn’t been worth the glance Roy had given it. And he wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the peculiarities of the male sexuality, but most of his sisters’ customers just wanted a woman who would hang on their arm and laugh at their jokes before taking their clothes off. He had never heard them talk about anything like this.

As if reading Roy’s mind, Kimblee said, “Now _that_ isn’t in any painting you’ve seen.”

He turned the page. The next photograph showed a woman with clothespins on her nipples.

“Rather more interesting than that dull little squeeze,” murmured Kimblee.

Roy only nodded. He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman’s nipples, dark and pinched between the wooden clamps.

Kimblee’s low rasp continued, “Carmichael has no sense of performance or subtlety. The most banal titillation excites him. You’re not like that.”

Roy looked up. Kimblee had that same strange smile, small but full of promise—or threat. Roy still couldn’t tell the difference. What was worse, he didn’t want to. All his feelings were beginning to get mixed up with each other, until they became a single pulsing tangle of skittish heat, low at his hips.

He took a careful breath and said, “What would happen if you put the clothespin somewhere else?”

Kimblee chuckled. “I knew I liked the way your mind worked.”

The next woman lay back on a man, grinning. She was being penetrated, which was shockingly visible because she had shaven herself.

“I don’t like the bareness as much,” said Kimblee. “But it _does_ make it easier to examine.” He tapped the area in question with a nail that was smooth and neatly filed to roundness.

His touch lingered—and then relaxed into a _stroke_ down the man’s cock.

“I’d like to try this position,” he said.

Swallowing, Roy wondered about the weight of a woman on top of him, the angle his cock would bend at. Would being shaven make _it_ feel different?

Beside him, Kimblee’s breath was quiet and steady. _He_ was probably picturing himself in the position. But of course Roy couldn’t begin to guess at that image. He had no idea what Kimblee looked—

They both shifted in the same moment, and, Roy suddenly realized, in the same way: slouching back and letting the legs fall slightly apart. Inside him, shock warred with something deeper and hungrier, something growing; something that even the new room in his trousers couldn’t contain, except uncomfortably.

Roy wondered if Kimblee’s pulse was racing as fast as his own.

Beat by increasingly frantic beat, he followed Kimblee on through the reel of monochromatic flesh. There was a woman with murky white smears across her stomach that Kimblee explained were candle wax, and a woman in a black mask holding a horsewhip. He seemed to have each image’s place in the book memorized: sometimes he skimmed forward, then back, as if this display was a carefully arranged presentation.

It was more intense when the photographs included men. Roy admired their hands on the women’s bodies and felt himself slipping easily into the fantasies. Perhaps he _could_ pull a woman’s head back by her hair, or lick the soles of her feet. His thoughts were a whirl, and his palms tingled. It made him loose-lipped, commenting recklessly on the women’s appearances, or on how much something looked like it hurt. And Kimblee only seemed to grow more and more pleased.

“Tell me what you think,” he kept saying.

When they reached a woman proudly displaying a discolored patch on her buttocks, Roy even reached out to touch it. “Whoa,” he said. “Is that a real bruise, or makeup, do you think?”

Kimblee grinned. “ _That_ is whatever helps you feel less guilty, Mustang.”

Roy was trying to ignore the ache in his cock so he could decide, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a zipper.

He looked. Involuntarily, but the swift glance was more than enough to capture the whole searing image: flesh in color, with salient detail no photograph could hope to render. The thought of protest fled his mind, blotted out by the helpless knowledge of what stood merely a handful of inches away.

“Aren’t _you_ ready yet?” said Kimblee. “You’ve been squirming for the last five minutes.”

His casual amusement only dizzied Roy further. “I didn’t”—why was his mouth so dry?—”I wasn’t expecting you to share _that_ with me.”

“Well, this isn’t a library. If you’re going to enjoy my material, it’ll have to stay here.”

Roy had overheard men together, once or twice—sound carried well in the desert—but never engaged with one himself. Did this count as an engagement? He didn't have to stay. He knew that.

And yet he was reaching for his trousers, hands trembling. His head hummed almost painfully; he was utterly incapable of stopping himself, faint with—what _was_ it that he felt? He had never been more sober in his life, and yet liquor-like fire was slithering through his veins. The feeling was dangerous and hot, making him foolish. Making him pull his cock out in front of another man.

Once he had done it, he didn’t know where to look. At his own hand, slowly pumping? At the woman’s bruised buttocks? The only place he knew he could not look was beside him, where the soft sounds of stroking were emanating distractingly.

He swallowed and forced himself back to the photograph. The feminine smile, the imagined smoothness of her bare, bruised skin under his tongue. It was difficult to concentrate, but Roy squeezed his cock harder and that was almost enough distraction.

Kimblee reached forward. For one horrible, throbbing second, Roy thought he knew exactly where those fingers were going. But Kimblee only turned the page, revealing a nude man standing over a woman only half-covered by a torn wedding dress.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” Roy gasped.

“It’s not for me,” said Kimblee. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Roy. Somehow the admission felt different now that he was exposed.

“Is it the innocence, or the desecration?”

Roy’s gaze went from the woman’s exposed breasts to the hard line of the man’s cock.

“The desecration,” he said with numb lips.

Kimblee laughed. “I think I like the way that word sounds in your mouth.”

Roy’s hand had sped up without him realizing. He slowed it now, but even that couldn’t quiet the rising tide of heat, the increasingly desperate need to come. Oh, no, what was he supposed to do about _that_?

Then Kimblee sucked in a hasty breath, reached for the handkerchief, and flipped several pages forward in rapid succession.

A man’s muscular chest filled the top half of the photograph. His naked hips were visible, too, but the rest of him, the key parts, were blocked by the woman kneeling before him. All that could be seen of her was a sliver of profile and her long, straight black hair.

And it didn’t matter that there were no breasts, no penetration; Roy wanted, desperately, to be there, to know what was happening between them. He wanted to kneel beside her and watch cock fill her mouth. Or he wanted to thread his fingers through black hair, feel himself swallowed, and look down to see—

“Watch me,” said Kimblee roughly.

Roy couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted. Kimblee held the handkerchief to his cock, but he wasn’t covering himself, and Roy could see _everything_. Kimblee’s hand sped up and squeezed hard. He made a sound Roy had never heard another man make before, a low, urgent groan. And his whole body seemed to tighten—then a sharp gasp, a shudder, and there was seed shooting white from the tip of his cock with each jerk.

Roy’s hand sped up, and he was helpless to stop it. He couldn’t take his eyes off Kimblee squeezing his cock, the last dribbles of fluid. The book was still open, but Roy couldn’t focus on the photograph at all; and then suddenly darkness like long black hair was creeping in at the edges of his vision.

“Lie down, Mustang,” Kimblee’s voice commanded from far away, and then fingers were in Roy’s hair and he was leaning back. The cot was soft when he fell against it. His breaths came long and deep, even as the heat in his cock climbed to a fever.

“Relax.”

But the tension in Roy’s body was only winding tighter. Did he _want_ Kimblee to touch him? Want it to be Kimblee’s hand around his cock, stroking faster and fast? The alchemy on his palms would press against Roy’s flesh. Would it tickle?

Would it burn?

“Go on,” said Kimblee. “I want to see it.”

And then Roy understood. It wasn’t fear that he was feeling. It was a want so ravenous that its depth was frightening in and of itself.

“Come for _me_ ,” said Kimblee—and Roy did.

His senses were slow to return. Breath, first; his mouth felt raw. His toes had clenched painfully. The hand on his cock was his own, damp with sweat and a little sticky. He blinked, only just recognizing the handkerchief held above his jacket before it was whisked away. When he looked, Kimblee’s gaze was fixed upon him, his dark, angular eyebrows slightly creased above his elegantly long nose.

“Well, I think you ought to wear the title of ‘pervert’ with pride after that,” he said.

Roy was suddenly, horribly conscious of his exposed, wilting cock. He sat up quickly, trying to tuck himself back in his trousers at the same time.

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Kimblee. _He_ hadn’t bothered to cover himself again—and, in fact, appeared to be putting it on display. “I’m not going to steal it from you.”

“Well, you seemed pretty focused on it before,” muttered Roy, standing as fast as he could. He had an overpowering need to be anywhere else.

Kimblee’s grin showed his teeth. “Just reciprocating in kind, Mustang.” He tossed his hair, and the long black strands slid across his shoulders.

No, Roy thought as he hurried out of the tent, he wasn’t ready to think about Kimblee. Not yet. His feet carried him quickly away. In the next few days, perhaps, there might be time. He could flip back through his book of memories in private, and revisit this particular engagement again and again.

 

 

 


End file.
